


Unresolved

by I_m_cumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-The Sign of Three, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Some Fluff, Unrequited Love, possible ooc, some mushiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:30:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_m_cumberbatched/pseuds/I_m_cumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re none of those things, you know?” John whispers.</p>
<p>Sherlock turns around slowly.  John is so close Sherlock can feel his breath hot on his chest.  He furrows his brows in confusion.</p>
<p>John’s mouth twitches at the corners.  “Those things you said you were in your speech.  You are . . . none of them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unresolved

**Author's Note:**

> Some spoilers from The Sign of Three. Inspired by this post on Tumblr from ughbenedict.tumblr.com: "do you think that right before his honeymoon, john comes to baker street to see sherlock playing violin and he whispers “you’re none of those things” and sherlock turns around, his brows furrowed so john goes on “you’re none of those things you said you were in your speech”"
> 
> Very loosely related to a previous work of mine titled "With Love". You certainly don't need to read it to understand this story as it works perfectly fine as a standalone, but obviously you're welcome to read it if you like. 
> 
> Got a bit gushy and possibly OOC at the end. Just a warning.
> 
> Sorry in advance for any Americanisms. This has not been Brit-picked.

Sherlock is lost in thought, in music, when he hears John’s footsteps on the stairs.  He closes his eyes and dips his head as his arm pushes the bow softly against the strings of his violin.  He’s not playing anything in particular.  He does that sometimes.  Just lets his fingers do what they want.  They’ve decided on D minor today, for whatever reason.  The song is melancholic, full of resignation and nostalgia.

John’s footsteps stop just inside the doorway as he waits for Sherlock to finish.  Sherlock plays a few minutes more, the notes dancing around until landing on the second scale degree.  Sherlock’s shoulders tense as he holds the note out, then he drops his arms to his side, his shoulders slumping. 

John shuffles in the doorway.  “You can finish, if you like.  That was. . . .”  Sherlock turns as John’s voice drifts off.  He quirks his eyebrow and John smiles.  “It was quite beautiful.”

Sherlock sets his first violin back in its case.  He hadn’t wanted to use his Stradivarius today, though he couldn’t say why.  He lets his fingers run over the engraving on the back of the neck.  _With love_.  Possibly he subconsciously desired something with more emotional meaning.  God, he is turning into a sentimental fool.

“It is finished,” he says and John raises his eyebrows.  “It sounds as if it isn’t because I neglected to end on the tonic.  Most things in life end unresolved,” Sherlock explains.  “Why should music be any different?”

John nods distractedly.  He steps further into the room, his eyes gazing around.  Sherlock moves to the window, his back to John, and eases the curtains out of the way.  He peers down at the street.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, yes?” Sherlock asks.  “For your honeymoon.”

“Mmm." 

“Shouldn’t you be packing?”

John doesn’t answer.

Sherlock’s hands tighten on the curtains.  His vision blurs as his eyes unfocus, and suddenly John is right behind him.

“You’re none of those things, you know?” John whispers.

Sherlock turns around slowly.  John is so close Sherlock can feel his breath hot on his chest.  He furrows his brows in confusion.

John’s mouth twitches at the corners.  “Those things you said you were in your speech.  You are . . . _none_ of them.”

Sherlock inhales deeply through his mouth.  “John. . . .” he breathes.

“Sherlock.”  John looks away, and then back again.  “I’m not good at this . . . stuff.  You know that.  But I wanted to tell you–”  He shakes his head.  “I _needed_ to tell you. . . .”  John places his hand lightly on Sherlock arm.  “That you are the greatest man – the _best_ man,” he adds with a wry smile, and Sherlock’s lips turn up, “that I have ever known.”

Sherlock’s head is swimming and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.  “John.”

“Just let me finish.”  John takes a deep breath.  “Lestrade told me, that first night after you had gone off like an idiot with that cabbie, that you were a great man.  Now, don’t go telling him I told you this, because he’d have my hide,” John says with a grin.  “But he did.  And then he said that one day, if we were lucky, you might even be a good man.

“I’ve been luckier than most.  I saw that good in you right from the start.  You _are_ a good man, and you always have been.  I wish everyone else could see that.  I wish _you_ could see that.”  John’s fingers tighten around Sherlock’s arm.  “And I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.” 

Neither of them says anything for a few minutes.  Sherlock’s mind has frozen, just as it did when John asked him to be his best man.  He has no idea what would be appropriate to say or do right now, and he feels like he has to do something, but what he wants to do – what he’s been dying to do since he came back – is certainly _not_ appropriate considering John is now a married man.  Sherlock opts instead for just staring blankly into John’s deep blue eyes.

Sherlock blinks, and the next time he opens his eyes John is gone.  He shakes his head, and looks around dazedly.  It’s 2:43 a.m. according to the clock on the oven.  He’s been standing there for nearly five hours. 

He plays through the conversation again, and his stomach clenches.  He feels . . . broken.  Empty.  Unfinished.  His eyes flick down to his open violin case. 

Unresolved.


End file.
